Box Five
by angelofnight
Summary: This is REALLY it this time!
1. Box Five

A/N - I searched high and low for the story I am going to reference this one off of. Yet alas, it seems to have gone missing from FF. I believe it was called "Only a dream?" or "Did it happen?" something along those lines. Two friends go to the Opera House and believe they heard the Phantom speak to them. I don't know if it's based on real circumstances (many people always claim that but it is rarely true. Watch "Serpent and the Rainbow" for heavens sake!). Yet in my story, she is alone.  
  
@-}-- @-}-- @-}-- @-}-- @-}-- @-}-- @-}-  
  
Rosemarie looked about the Opera House excitedly as she toured through it with the rest of the group she'd been assigned to. Yet they were coming painfully close to Box Five. Tucked into an inner pocket of her warm leather coat was a small envelop, the outside of it addressed to "O.G.". Inside was a letter, from her of course, to the infamous "Phantom of the Opera", lovingly called Erik by all true Phans. She was only being silly, of course. A woman of nearly 20 knew fables when she heard them. Yet she had the childlike quality of being able to transport her mind deep into her imagination, where anything she wanted to be real simply was.  
  
"Isn't that -"  
  
The tour guide immediately interrupted one of the tourists; nodding his head and explaining to all the others the legend behind box five. Rosemarie listened with half of an ear, already knowing the legend by heart. She had seen so many movie versions, and read three books - one failure included called "The Phantom of Manhattan" which everyone seemed to utterly despise - except for her. She didn't need to listen to the superstitious rubbish the tour guide was handing out: Especially not such a watered-down version.  
  
"Monsieur, I have to use the bathroom!" She announced abruptly from the back of the crowd. The man, probably in his mid-twenties and as boring with handsome looks as anyone could possibly be, looked back at her, straining to see the plain girl with glasses and short reddish-brown hair that announced her intimate little detail.  
  
"You'll have to wait until we're done with the tour." He told her apologetically. Rosemarie immediately started bouncing around; doing the little pee dance that everyone was capable of recognizing.  
  
"Please, Monsieur?" She entreated. "I'll catch up, I promise! I know the tour. I came here three years ago!"  
  
The man looked at her skeptically, only a few other tourists understanding their exchanged words. She was one of the few American's there. The man was lucky to be multi-lingual.  
  
"All right." He finally conceded, and again began to speak with the others in French, then switching to Spanish.  
  
As the crowd wandered off down the hallway, Rosemarie made for Box Five, and tried the door. It was locked. Yet she'd read online that a girl had once climbed into Box Five from the one beside it. Moving to the next door, she was relieved when it opened. It didn't take long for her to climb over from one box to the other, and then she stood in the legendary Box Five.  
  
There was a chair available, although she knew it couldn't possibly be the very same one used in the late 1800's. Then, there was the marble pillar to the left of the box, which was supposedly hollow. Smiling fiendishly, she crept forward, and taped her knuckles carefully against it. Sure enough, the marble was solid. With a small frown, she sat heavily into the available chair, and looked around. It was surreal, sitting in the very spot, legend had it, that Erik had once occupied. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head back and smiled.  
  
Only then did she remember the note in her pocket. Standing, she fished it out from the inside of her coat, and turned to place it on the little shelf at the back of the box. At least that was still true. The shelf existed - where it was said Erik left his notes for Mme Giry. Well, now she left a note for him, just as the managers had at one time in order to try and trap him. The idiots thought they could actually fool the brilliant genius the phantom had been!  
  
"What is wrong with you?" She laughed at herself softly, muttering aloud as she did so. "This isn't real. You're letting your imagination get the better of you."  
  
Sitting down in the chair again, she closed her eyes. Reaching over to the left, she knocked again, idly, on the marble column. This time, something odd happened. This time, it seemed to be hollow. Curious, and without opening her eyes, she knocked again. Once more, it sounded hollow. Eyes snapping open, she turned to stare in awe at the column of seemingly solid marble. Had it echoed before and she just hadn't heard it? No, she'd been listening too carefully. Something had changed.  
  
"Vous ne devriez pas être ici, Mademoiselle."  
  
The voice startled her, and she stood, looking around in confusion. The voice had sounded as though it were in the box with her, yet it was not. She was the only one there. She was still alone. She had only word two words of the French spoken to her; "you" and "Miss". The Rest of the words were a mystery to her. Slowly turning, she lowered herself, trembling with fright and excitement, into the chair a third time.  
  
"Vous ne devriez pas être ici, Mademoiselle!"  
  
She sat bolt upright as the voice came again, stronger than before, more insistent. Not daring to turn around, she swallowed thickly.  
  
"Parlez-vous anglais?" She asked in a slightly shaky voice. There was a long pause, tense with hesitancy. Then, the voice came again.  
  
"Yes." She closed her eyes, sighing in relief. At least now she could understand what was being said to her! She wondered who was speaking to her, and from where. Where had they learned to speak like that? Such a wondrous voice . . . The very idea of this man speaking to her in Box Five with a lovely voice made her quiver.  
  
"Monsieur . . . I am sorry, I do not know what you said." She whispered. "Who are you?"  
  
"I said you should not be here." The man replied, ignoring her question altogether. Rosemarie swallowed again, even though by now her throat was quite dry.  
  
"Are you . . . are you Erik?" She asked uncertainly. Again, there was an endless pause. "Hello? Monsieur?" She didn't dare turn around. She was quite sure she'd see nothing.  
  
"How do you know my name?"  
  
She could have sworn that her heart had stopped beating. It was Erik! It was the "Phantom of the Opera"! His voice was different than she would have imagined, but she didn't expect perfection like that easily imagined. Slowly, she sat up straighter, in a more dignified position.  
  
"You'd be surprised." She finally replied. "You're in your secret passage, aren't you? Could you possibly . . . come out so I might at least know where you are? I won't look at you, if you don't want me to."  
  
There was yet another hesitant pause. Then, she heard the marble - without a doubt it was the marble panel - sliding open. There was a soft whisper of material brushing against something - possibly his silk black cloak against the marble. She didn't know because she didn't turn around. The one thing she wanted to do more than anything else in the universe, she did not do.  
  
"My name is Rosemarie." She told him quietly. "You can call me by either nickname that suites you, if you wish."  
  
"Thank you." He was silent for such a long time. Surely this was just as unsettling to him as it was to her. She heard the rustle of paper, a tear. She realized that he was opening the envelope she'd left for him on the small shelf behind her. Minutes passed as he read the lengthy letter. Then, she heard him fold it. "That was an interesting letter." He announced suddenly.  
  
"I wrote it from my heart." She replied softly.  
  
"I see . . ."  
  
She sighed, and half turned to him, keeping her eyes lowered carefully.  
  
"I wish . . . I wish you would let me see you." She admitted.  
  
"No." He said sharply. "No one may see me."  
  
"I understand." She tried to say softly. That seemed to take him off guard. He'd expected her to turn no matter what he said, probably. She'd never do that, though. She never would have done something that might hurt him. "A lot of people have caused you pain."  
  
"You explained all that in the letter." He told her sarcastically. "Many people say things that they believe to be true. They say that I would not disturb them. Then they see me . . . and they end up just like everyone else. You have no idea what it feels like to -"  
  
"-To be an outcast?" She replied quickly. "Au contraire. I understand perfectly what it is like to be an outcast. I understand perfectly what it is like to be alone. I may not have been as alone as you, but I have felt utterly alone and completely misunderstood my entire lifetime."  
  
There was an uncomfortable silence. She wondered if he was upset; angry because her tone had been so chastising. Yet he said nothing. For a long moment, they sat in silence.  
  
Abruptly, he moved towards her, so that he was standing directly in front of where she faced at the side of the chair. Yet her head was still lowered. She could see him wearing the shiny black shoes she recognized from pictures of the old days. He wore expensive dress slacks, and a white shirt with ruffled sleeves and cravat, under a black vest. He wore a velvet cape - rather than the silk she'd imagined. Then again, it was late autumn. Why wouldn't he wear something warmer? He was also wearing white gloves.  
  
"Then look at me, if you think you can." His voice challenged softly. "Do you have the nerve?"  
  
"I have more than the nerve." She said boldly. "But you don't have to do this. Are you wearing your mask, Erik?"  
  
"Yes. I have no reason to remove it. Not even for you."  
  
She lifted her head slowly. She was a bit startled by what she saw. He wore no hat, which made it apparent he had long rusty colored hair, pulled back into a tail. He was wearing the black mask spoken of in Gaston Leroux's novel. It occurred to her that he might be wearing a wig. He wore a wig in the Andrew Lloyd-Webber production. Lloyd-Webber, of course, was hardly aware of what the real Phantom was like. Sharp blue eyes, like crystal, stared down at her coolly, fully expecting to see apprehension or fear on her face.  
  
She didn't show him fear. After watching him for a long moment, she smiled, and reached up to take his gloved hands in her own. He was startled, his fingers stiff and unyielding under her own. Yet she didn't let go, and he allowed her to hold his hands. Slowly, she stood, still facing him and still holding his hands, and smiled at him more broadly.  
  
"You see?" She whispered. "I wasn't lying in my letter."  
  
Erik stared at her for a moment that seemed like an eternity. Then, abruptly, she shook his head as though to come out of a daze, and pulled away from her, moving swiftly towards the marble panel.  
  
"Erik - wait!" She pleaded, moving after him. Yet he'd already tripped a trigger in his hideout. The marble panel was sliding shut, separating them. She reached out to get her hands in the way, but he pushed them back quickly. Obviously she didn't care whether or not her hands broke from the weight of the trick panel. As it closed between them, she pounded on it angrily with her fists. "Erik - please! Please wait!"  
  
As she continued to pound on the marble, she realized that it had lost the hollow sound again. It seemed as solid as a huge block of marble ought to be. There was no longer a secret panel. Growling in frustration, she turned and flung the only chair onto its' side. Abruptly, the door to Box Five unlocked, and out stepped a young woman who was obviously a tour guide. She stared in at Rosemarie in disbelief, then narrowed her eyes in anger.  
  
"How did you get in here?" She demanded. "Come out of there at once! Straighten up that chair!"  
  
Sighing, Rosemarie did as she was told, and then moved towards the door. It was then she noticed that her letter had been placed back onto the shelf. At least that was how it seemed to look. Lifting it curiously, she turned it over.  
  
The seal had never been broken. 


	2. The Lake

A/N - I've never been to Paris and have only ever seen one picture of the underground lake in "The Complete Phantom of the Opera". I am making everything about it up. Also, I loosely base my Erik's looks on the Charles Dance rendition. Of course I don't know what he looks like under his mask, but just picture him if you can!  
  
  
  
Rosemarie might have been booted from the Opera House that day, but she was in France for the entire summer. Three days later, she returned and took another tour. Although she wanted to go into Box Five again, there was somewhere else that she'd never been: the underground lake. She hardly expected anything to happen again; she thought herself lucky to have spoken to Erik once, twice would have been inconceivable. But she did want to see the lake none-the-less.  
  
The area was restricted, for some reason or another, that day. Yet when they were close enough, she again used the excuse of having to use the bathroom to sneak away from the rest of the tour group. She searched every door and stairwell. Even using the directions she remembered from the book by Gaston Leroux, it was difficult to find her destination. It was very well concealed, it seemed. Yet finally, she walked down through the correct corridor, lit dimly by lights that aligned the floor.  
  
The moment she saw the black underground lake shimmering under a few emergency lights that had been wired into the walls, she felt something strange come over her. It was the same way she'd felt in Box Five days earlier, when she'd knocked on the marble panel only to find it was hollow. She didn't know what made her feel so strange this time. No male voice suddenly spoke to her with such beautiful tones as to make her heart stop. She was alone, or at least she believed herself to be.  
  
Smiling, and sighing in relief, she sat down quietly at the side of the lake, reaching down to touch her fingertips into the water, through the safety rails that had been installed. It was freezing! Pulling her hand up quickly, she wiped her wet fingertips on the forest green sweater sticking out from under her leather coat. With a fiendish little smile, she sang quietly to herself. Nothing else could have suited except for the title song from the Andrew Lloyd-Webber production of "Phantom of the Opera". Yet she preferred, just this once, to sing the first lyrics ever planned.  
  
"Beneath the Opera House, I know he's there. He's with me on the stage. He's everywhere. And when my song begins, I always find the Phantom of the Opera is there, inside my mind!"  
  
Her voice came out pretty, like a rather clear bell. Yet it was absolutely nothing in comparison to the beauty of Rebecca Pitcher's voice. Rebecca was a young lady she'd seen twice on stage, and could never fully get over her performance. Well, perhaps it wasn't Rebecca's performance she couldn't get over, after all. It was entirely due to the powerful stage presence of Ted Keegan!  
  
Hearing something to the side, Rosemarie started, turning sharply. She expected to have been found by one of the Opera House staff. Yet that wasn't who stood just over her shoulder. This was the man she'd seen three days earlier. He still wore the same slacks, shoes, white shirt, and cloak. He wore his hair in the same way, and still wore the black mask. Yet he no longer wore a vest. Apparently he hadn't planned on meeting with anyone else. A gentleman who'd been raised in the 1800's did not wear only their shirtsleeves in the presence of a lady. At least that is what her mind surmised.  
  
"Monsieur." She breathed; surprised she could get a word out at all. For a long moment, she simply stared up at him. In return, he peered down at her, curiously. He didn't seem especially nervous or cross. He simply watched her.  
  
"Mademoiselle Rose." He finally greeted, the fine tones of his voice lifting and falling with each syllable. He bowed just slightly, and then offered her a hand. That was also what was different about him. He wore no white gloves, and so his strong looking hand was bare. He had the fingers of a pianist. Slowly, Rosemarie gave him her hand, and he pulled her gently to her feet.  
  
"Erik, I didn't think I'd see you again." She said quietly. Again, he watched her a long moment. He seemed to examine her clothes. Then, he nodded.  
  
"I thought the same about you." He confessed. "What are you doing down here?"  
  
"Wishing I was out there." She stated, pointing out across the lake, to the darkness beyond which was not open to the tourists. Erik followed her gaze, and it was somewhat apparent that he smiled.  
  
"Would you care to go there with me?" He asked, his voice a bit of a challenge. "Though I dare say you probably won't be seen in Paris again. You know what it means to come down here to my domain. Don't you?"  
  
That made her blood run cold, even though she could tell by the tone of his voice that he was teasing her. The very idea of the possibility made her shiver just a bit. He'd succeeded in frightening her for the first time. Then again, the threat of death would frighten just about anyone.  
  
"You wouldn't have to kill me, would you, Erik?" She asked in return. "I could stay there and live with you until my natural death."  
  
That had Erik laughing, leaning forward just slightly. It was one of the most enchanting sounds in the world. How easy it was for him to weave a spell of sound about her. Perhaps she was susceptible to it because she knew he could do it. Maybe she wanted him to entrance her, and seduce her with his voice. Many female Phans did.  
  
"Go back above, Rose." He suggested. "You don't want to go across there. There is nothing to see. The house is gone. I walled it in over a century ago."  
  
She turned to look directly into his eyes again. He seemed casual, and amused. There was no trace of sadness in his eyes.  
  
"You're a ghost then." She stated. Erik seemed to think this over for a long moment.  
  
"Yes, I suppose I am." He confessed. "I'm something like a ghost, at least. Yet I can't necessarily chose who sees me, and who doesn't. I can't chose who does and does not hear me, either. I use my old tricks to keep concealed."  
  
"Why did you speak to me then?" She whispered.  
  
"You're the first person that I've actually seen get into my private box." He said simply. "I know others have gotten inside, other than the staff members who go in to clean up all the envelopes constantly being shoved under the door. I've never had a chance to read the letters."  
  
"Does the staff read them?" She asked, horrified at the idea. If the workers of the Opera House were living in the late 1800's, they would never have dared to touch Erik's private mail. Erik shrugged slowly.  
  
"Once in a while." He said. "That's a good thing, believe it or not. They often read them aloud to one another, so I can hear what people have to say to me. I spoke to you so that I might have the chance to read the letter myself for a change."  
  
"You weren't going to come out and get it with me there." She protested.  
  
"No." He confessed. "Yet I was going to get the letter just as soon as I managed to frighten you away. I thought if you heard me speak to you, you would run."  
  
"Run from you?" It was Rosemarie's turn to laugh. "I don't think I would ever run from you, Erik!" Turning, she looked back across the lake. "I still want to see what's over there."  
  
"Well . . . one of the areas I stoned in is rather weak." He confessed. "It could be very easy to take away the stones and get into my old home."  
  
She thought for a very long moment. Why would he still be in the Opera House if his spirit seemed so at ease? Was it tormented and she simply couldn't see it? Erik watched her in that long moment, but did not answer the unspoken questions, which he must have been able to sense. It had always been one of his instincts, knowing what people thought.  
  
"Come with me." He finally whispered, and swept past her, along the cement she stood on, towards the end of the rail. "Let me show you something."  
  
Rosemarie was fast to follow, even into the blacker shadows, where the light did not reach. Soon enough, Erik gently grasped her upper left arm to lead her in the darkness, and then they stopped after about fifty seconds. There was a snapping sound, and then a small flame flared to life from a match. She watched as he lit a lantern, and could then see they were at the end of the observation deck - if that was one would call it.  
  
Erik reached up to the short section of protective railing at that end of the deck, and unlatched a nearly invisible lock, which swung the thing inward towards them on invisible hinges. The seam between the lateral bars attached to the cement, and the ones on the now gate like rail, was invisible when together and locked. Erik glanced up at her with a smirk.  
  
"I don't know how I managed to affect things physically, but I made this the night after they built all of this." He told her quietly. "They never knew it. The lock to keep the rail in place is sturdy."  
  
Nodding, Rosemarie didn't speak as he pulled up his sleeve, and leaned over the edge of the deck to reach into the water. Moments later he pulled up a rope, and started pulling. In only a few seconds, an ancient looking boat - sturdy, but with faded paint - came into view, and then bumped up against the deck.  
  
"Erik . . ." Was the only word she managed to breathe as he dried off his arm and hand with his velvet cloak, and pulled his sleeve back down into place.  
  
Chuckling at her obvious amazement, he took the half-foot step down into the boat, and then offered his hand to her. Without hesitation, Rosemarie took that offered hand, and sat down where she presumed Christine would have sat. He reached up for the lantern still on the deck, and hung it at the front of the boat, to lead their way across the blackness of the lake, and started poling them forward.  
  
"You aren't going to change your mind?" He asked. "How do you say it again today? Chicken out?" He laughed, and she managed a nervous giggle. This was so utterly amazing that it was hard to find anything particularly humorous. Nothing could defeat the sense of awe that she felt.  
  
"I want to see this." She insisted, and looked back up at him. Yet he wasn't looking down at her now. He was paying strict attention to where he was directing the boat. After only a few minutes, they bumped up along a nearly invisible shore.  
  
"Home sweet home, if you'd call it that." He announced with mild sarcasm, stepping out of the boat to tie it off to some bolt in the wall beyond the light of the lantern. Then, he came back to lift her onto the shore with careful, tender hands. Rosemarie became temporarily lost in that sensation, leaning against him even when her feet were on solid ground. He didn't seem to mind, but he didn't encourage her either.  
  
"Well now, would you like to go see it?" He asked curiously. He bent down to pick up his lantern, and turned up the wick until a fine constant puff of black smoke was rising into the air. He kept hold on one of her hands. "Here, even with the light way up, your eyes can't adjust to the dark like mine can."  
  
He led her up along the thin embankment, which was unbalanced by huge chunks of broken up cement. She wondered where it had all come from, but didn't ask. What did it matter? After walking a few paces, they stood in front of an area that had obviously been a doorway before it had been stoned in. It looked like the wall of a fireplace. Slowly, her gaze traveled up to Erik.  
  
"It looks sturdy enough to me." She said quietly. He laughed, shook his head, and pointed to the top left hand corner. There was a gap, even if it was filled with black cobwebs. "I suppose I have to do this."  
  
"I am afraid so." He told her, putting the lantern down once more. "Here, I know you can't reach." He went down on one knee and helped her to stand on his thigh. She balanced well, and hurried to pull down first one stone, than the other, without falling or dropping them on him. Even if he was a ghost, he was in physical being. She thought there was a good chance he could get hurt. So she was careful, throwing the stones far behind them.  
  
"I think I could reach standing up now." She told him, and stepped down from his leg. Even though he wore a black mask, there was something about his stance when he rose to his feet that said he might be embarrassed about how he'd helped her. Maybe it was the fact that he'd been holding her by the lower thighs the entire time to make sure she kept her balance steady. He stood back, watching as she strained with a few of the rocks, and then finally just knocked them aside in the weaker areas. Soon, the wall was only a foot high.  
  
"I think that's far enough." He told her gently. "Go on inside." He put both hands behind his back.  
  
Rosemarie turned curiously.  
  
"Aren't you coming in with me?" She asked in concern. He merely shook his head. "Why not?"  
  
"I haven't been in there since I made the walls." He told her softly, looking away. Rosemarie felt her skin go cold. It was something no phan had ever imagined. Everyone had thought that Erik would never have done such a thing.  
  
His body was in there. Erik had walled himself in, killing himself.  
  
"Will you be out here when I come out?" She worried. At this, he looked back to her with a genuine smile.  
  
"Long enough to take you back." He promised. "Even if I weren't, you'd be able to get back."  
  
Rosemarie walked up to him, staring up at him for a long moment. Then, biting her lower lip, she hugged him tightly. He gasped sharply, obviously having not expected that, but put his arms back around her in return, lightly stroking her short hair. Equally unexpected to her, Erik gently kissed the top of her head.  
  
"I've been waiting to be able to speak with someone." He admitted quietly. "It took over one-hundred years for someone to finally believe in me enough for me to speak to them. To finally have the good coincidence of moving up to my box in the very moment that someone was there."  
  
Backing away, she stared up at him. She thought she was beginning to understand. Yet if she understood correctly, she wasn't so certain she wanted to go in there. If she went into his home now, she would probably never see him again after today. Even knowing he was real, and had always been real; she didn't want to let him go.  
  
"Erik, I do love you." She whispered. "So many of us do."  
  
He stared at her a long moment.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
Then he turned and found a boulder a few feet away, sitting down on slightly trembling legs. That worried her, but not much. He was a ghost, for heavens' sake. He couldn't be feeling ill in any sense of the word.  
  
Turning, she stepped inside. 


	3. The Lair

A/N: Wow!!! I don't know how I made it onto so many people's favorites lists with this little ole story!! Thank you all so much. This ought to be the last, or second to last chapter. I'd never intended to write a second one, but it looks like I did! (lol) Thank you so very much, you guys! I hope to see more posts from you guys here on ff.net as well.  
  
To those who likes "The Lyre" . . . although I can promise no ending, I gave chicketieboo permission to post it on her website, which you can get to through her ff.net profile. She said it should be up in a week or so.  
  
......  
  
Stepping into the darkness, Rosemarie made certain to take the lantern with her, even the glass surrounding the potentially dangerous flame was becoming blackened from smoke. The room she entered first was dusty and full of cobwebs. All of the carpets, furniture, paintings, and wallpaper, were decayed from over a century of being forgotten about. Yet she wasn't after the artifacts inside the lair of 'the Phantom'. She felt as though some invisible hand were pulling her onward to a certain area of the hidden rooms, almost as though she'd been there before. After halting in her hesitant steps to recover from a sneezing fit the dust caused, she turned to look back towards the doorway she'd come through.  
  
"Erik?" She called uncertainly. Immediately, his silhouette appeared in the space just outside the door.  
  
"Rose?" He replied simply, his tone curious. His hands leaned against the stony frame of the door, yet he made certain to stay completely outside.  
  
"Nothing." She finally replied, turning to go further into the room. At least she knew he was still there. Covering her mouth and nose with her hand to keep as much dust as possible from causing another sneezing fit, she dared to step around a chair and towards a strange door that stood wide open against one wall. Amazingly enough (even to those who had read about it in books) the door was made from a part of the wall. Obviously it was meant to be a secret passage.  
  
Without going inside, she knew what room it was. Turning a second time, she saw Erik watching her with his keen, and surprisingly, anxious blue eyes. The ruffles of his sleeves hung down on either side of him, hands pressed firmly against the stone frame he stood behind. He gave her a slight encouraging nod, and she smiled weakly, turning to step into the other room as he disappeared from view.  
  
The bedroom was still recognizable, but just as decayed as the other room. Once fine material, and expensive woods had rotted away. Still, on the collapsed bed lay a figure tangled under decayed blankets. She recognized the black peeking out from under it. For a moment Rosemarie didn't want to go forward. The air was stale and hard to breathe. The quietness of the place unnerved her to no end. Yet she had to see the object on the bed up close.  
  
"Erik . . ." She whispered, reached out to peel back a strip of blanket remaining draped over the black object. The fabric turned to dust in her hands, yet the thing underneath remained quite solid. For a split second, and a split second alone, she nearly screamed.  
  
A skeleton. A skeleton that wore a black mask!  
  
"Erik!" She did scream then, but not from fear. She put the lantern down carefully, so as not to drop it and have it explode on her. Both hands flew to her face, and she felt her body shaking uncontrollably. She shook her head in denial, not wanting to look up again. Again, however, it felt as though something were making her.  
  
After several minutes of just standing there, shaking and weeping, she reached out with both hands to tear the black mask from the skull on the bed. There was an ugly snapping sound, and the skull fell away from the neck of the rest of the skeleton. None-the-less, she could almost see the flash of an image before her. In the place of the skeleton, or rather overlapping the skeleton was the fully 'formed' man that Erik had once been; skin, and bones, and muscle, and blood, even if his face was still deformed.  
  
"Thank you . . ." A voice crooned gently into her ear, a moment before the image vanished. Rosemarie threw the mask in her hand across the room, not wanting to feel it in her hand. Then, she whirled away from the bed, picking up the lantern and stumbling out into the front room. Sobbing, she collapsed onto the floor, which sent the carpet of dust flying all about her, sending her into a coughing fit. That only made it more difficult to breathe.  
  
"Erik!" She pleaded, unable to move, not sure she wanted to while she cried. "Erik! Erik!"  
  
..............  
  
When she finally emerged from the lair, stepping over the low stonewall she'd knocked almost completely down earlier, she stared around her. Sure enough, Erik was gone. At least, she couldn't see him there. She wiped at her red, swollen eyes, and moved towards the boat he'd used to take her across the lake. She didn't want to go back across alone. She didn't want to leave.  
  
"Night time sharpens . . ." She began to sing quietly, just standing there, stalling for time. Then, finally, she turned to look back at the lair. For a moment, it seemed a shadow stood just beyond the light, a darker blackness against the rest of the shadows. It tricked her long enough so that she started heading back towards the lair quickly.  
  
The rock wall, which had supported itself over and around her self made doorway chose that moment to collapse. The lantern fell to the ground, exploding momentarily in blinding light, and then sputtering until blackness surrounded her again. Not that she would have been able to see had the light not gone out. There was complete and utter silence in the whole underground lake. The black waters were completely still, not a flicker of a ripple throughout the whole glassy surface. 


	4. The Truth

A/n - All right you vultures!! (teasing) I'll write this one last chapter! I know it's a switch from my usually sappiness/cheeriness, but that's what I like about it. Maybe if you guys don't like it I won't have to write anymore! (teasing again, but is in all serious walking on a wire with this one).  
  
@-}--@-}--@-}--@-}--@-}-  
  
"I am the writing on the wall; the whisper in the classroom. Without these, I am nothing. So now I must shed innocent blood. Be my victim." "Do you believe in me? . . . Come with me and be immortal." ~ Quote snippets from Clive Barker's "Candyman".  
  
@-}-- @-}--  
  
The Truth  
  
Erik stood staring out over the lake, a pile of stone at his feet. There was more than stone in that pile, but he didn't want to look down. His eyes were bloodshot and damp, as was the skin under his mask, which made him feel terribly uncomfortable. At least it would have . . . had he been alive.  
  
There was a small inflatable raft coming across the lake, a group of people aboard it, all carrying flashlights, and miner's helmets with lights on them. It helped them to see much more than any lantern would have. They were coming to see what the loud crash had been only fifteen minutes before. Now they would find the open doorway, the body, and they would also find Rosemarie.  
  
It would be another rumor about the Opera Ghost to add to the thousands he'd already created over the years. Although the myth of the Phantom of the Opera had long been called legend, it was mostly taken on as a flight of fancy, and as rubbish. With the new happenings at the lake, no one would doubt his existence any longer. No one would doubt the power of the Phantom.  
  
Sighing, he knelt to look at the face staring out blankly from the pile of stone. The lungs had been crushed, vital organs pulverized, bones snapped - including the back and neck. Had she been alive, it would have caused a momentous amount of pain. He was glad she hadn't suffered. She'd been so sweet. He hadn't wanted to hurt her. Truly, he hadn't. He hadn't meant for the wall to collapse on her. He'd wanted her to carry the story of the masked skeleton back up to Paris for him. Of course he couldn't have let anyone else find his sacred home. So he'd wanted the wall to collapse. If only he'd been paying attention . . . sweet Rosemarie would still be alive.  
  
"Rose . . ." He sighed, brushing his finger against her chalky cheek, his shoulders shaking slightly as he tried not to cry. He was confident that the group coming across the lake would not see or hear him. He'd botched everything up again. There would be stories of the Opera Ghost. Yet there would also be displays of the body, pictures of the underground house, museum displays of the music kept safely untouched in a vault. They would be careful not to ruin his compositions, since by now the paper would be so fragile. They'd rewrite it and publish it, sending it out into a public that was never supposed to be exposed to it.  
  
The legend of the Phantom of the Opera was going to live again, and very little would be said about the girl who had been killed discovering it.  
  
"Erik!" Jerking his head upward, his own eyes widened.  
  
He should have known.  
  
Rosemarie stood in the doorway, smiling at him brightly, even though she was fully aware of her own body lying just by him. She folded her arms over her chest as she watched him, and then nodded back towards the lair.  
  
"C'mon, Erik! Let's go!"  
  
Blinking rapidly, he stood and moved into the shadows with her, just as the inflatable boat filled with Opera House staff reached their shore. 


End file.
